


Zeitgeber

by fideliant



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Deepthroating, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Fingerfucking, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 02:24:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3878602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fideliant/pseuds/fideliant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jet lag is a bitch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zeitgeber

**Author's Note:**

> AKA the PWP I've been trying to write since day one. And it only took like, what, ninety thousand words to get here? ~~I'm sorry~~ You're welcome.

“It’s too bright,” Eggsy complains. Now that they have left the shop and are standing on the street outside, there’s nothing to keep the London afternoon and its disgustingly summery weather away from him. He holds up a hand to shield his face as he squints away, his exhaustion clobbering him like a sucker punch between the eyes. “Harry, the fuck? Why’s it so bright?”

“That is what most people would call the _sun_ , dear Eggsy,” Harry replies, sending out a summons for a Kingsman taxi on his phone and pocketing it. His hand settles at Eggsy’s lower back as they wait, thumb stroking idly at the base of his spine. “You might have heard of it before — big ball of fire, comes out in the sky during the day, goes down at night, gives off lots of light and heat — sounds familiar?”

“Ha ha ha. You’re a riot, Harry.”

“I shall take that as a _yes_.”

“It’s too fuckin’ bright,” Eggsy reiterates, pressing his face into Harry’s shoulder and toying with the notion of just falling asleep on his feet. That’s humanly possible, isn’t it? Eggsy knows it is. He has seen Merlin do it. He is about sixty percent sure of pulling it off himself and a hundred percent knackered enough to try.

Harry pets the back of his head consolingly. “You can borrow my glasses, if you’d like,” he says.

“Fanks, m’good.” Transition lenses or no, it’s still one a.m in Papua New Guinea and six a.m in Anchorage, and Eggsy thinks his brain might have fallen out of his skull between battling insurgents in the former and blowing up a weapons plant in the latter and crossing the date line hokey-cokey style over the last seven days. The next time anyone tries to set him up for two or more missions in a row, he’s telling them to shove it. No amount of action or excitement is worth having his body clock snafued like this.

“Suit yourself.”

“Make it stop, Harry,” Eggsy moans. “Make it go away.”

“What, the _sun?”_

“Yes. Turn it off.”

“My love, I believe you may be confusing me with _God_ ,” Harry sighs as the taxi pulls over in front of them. “Or a solar eclipse, but I can assure you that I am neither.”

Eggsy grunts, allowing himself to be ushered into the back seat of the taxi, and sits dumbly with his eyes fluttering until Harry’s settled next to him and has instructed the driver to take them home, and then he falls asleep on Harry’s shoulder for what feels like all of ten seconds before he’s being prodded awake again with Harry saying, “Eggsy, wake up. We’re home.”

Confounded by the haze of disrupted sleep, Eggsy doesn’t remember being pulled from the taxi or shepherded into the house or Harry dragging him up the stairs, but all of those are incidents that must happen at some point because the next thing he knows is that he’s flopped face-first on their bed and Harry’s trying to get him to stand up again, his hand an annoying, insistent nudge in the flat of Eggsy’s back.

“You are not sleeping like that,” Harry says.

Eggsy mashes his face harder against the duvet, refusing to budge or open his eyes. “Go’way.”

“I’m giving you a shower first. You’re absolutely filthy.”

So he is. Eggsy’s suit smells of gunpowder and there’s dried sweat on his face and leavening his shirt, but _bed_. Comfy. It beckons inexorably to him, and who is Eggsy to resist, really?

“D’wanna shower," he grumbles. "Wanna sleep.”

“Come on, up, up, up,” Harry clucks and hauls Eggsy to his feet, holding him up despite Eggsy’s protests and feeble attempts to slump back onto their bed. Then, Eggsy’s tugged along to the bathroom, where Harry strips them both and bullies him into the shower. Deciding it pointless to complain any further, Eggsy lets Harry soap his chest and shampoo his hair and leans into Harry’s naked, slippery body in a daze. The water is nice and warm, and Harry even nicer, which Eggsy’s half-zombified brain can’t get a grip on putting into words, but he punctuates it anyway with a sloppy kiss that misses Harry’s mouth and finds his jaw instead. Close enough. At least it’s some part of Harry and not the loofah hanging off the shower wall.

“Sleeeep,” Eggsy drowses, wrapping his arms around Harry. The showerhead spits more water down his back, prickling and pinkening his skin. The heat that it leaks into him should be invigorating. Paradoxically, it only succeeds in draining him even further.

“Mm.” Harry manoeuvres Eggsy back under the water jet to rinse the lather from his hair. “Hang in there. Just a little more, Eggsy.”

A little more it is. Five minutes later, Eggsy’s squeaky clean and dripping wet all over the bathroom mat, his addled mind drifting through Harry drying him off and wrapping him in a towel and chaperoning him back to the bedroom. He’s a lot less conscious as Harry dresses him in pyjamas and tucks him cosily into bed, plumping up the pillows and pulling the duvet over Eggsy.

“Rest well, dear,” Harry says, patting Eggsy’s hip through the duvet. “Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything, alright?”

“Mmf.” Eggsy’s mostly gone by now, but he manages a tiny nod and an even tinier grin when Harry kisses his forehead. Silently promising to return that favour when he can, he snuggles into the soft mattress, and sleeps.

 

***

 

It’s dark out when Eggsy emerges from hibernation. Blackout curtains have been drawn across the balcony and windows, no light filtering in from around the corners. The only source of light in the room comes from the digital display of the clock next to him, liquid crystal numerals glowing half-past two in the morning at Eggsy from the bedside table. He blinks himself closer to consciousness and goes the rest of the way with a wide yawn and a couple seconds’ worth of stretching, ending in the delicious sensation of lengthened muscles and tendons popping out and back into place, hm, yes, good.

All limbered up again, Eggsy settles back down and turns to Harry’s side of the bed, reaching for him, and —

He’s not there.

Eggsy frowns, sits up, and stares at the empty sheets for a moment longer. Busy as Kingsmen can get, he knows for a fact that Harry’s not on active duty tonight. Somewhere else in the house, then. He pushes the covers back and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, where he sits scrubbing sleep from his eyes and face. Then, with a shiver and a sigh, he gets up and leaves the bedroom.

After a brief and necessary visit to the bathroom, Eggsy finds the stairs and traipses down to the ground floor. At night, the steps are cold and the floorboards creak under his feet, mild sounds made obnoxious and resonant in the ambient silence of Harry’s large house. The muted light flickering in the hall mirror draws Eggsy to the living room. As he gets closer, the susurrus of voices in discourse becomes apparent.

Harry’s in his armchair with the telly switched on in front of him. A travel programme hosted by multiple presenters is airing, but Harry isn’t watching any of it. Standing in the doorway, Eggsy doesn’t have to move any nearer to confirm what he already suspects, a low snore and snuffle reaching him before he can call out to Harry to come to bed. He thinks better of it then, considering his options in light of that revelation, and decides to leave making his mind up on what to do for the moment until he has more information.

Eggsy pads over to Harry, treading carefully so as to make as little noise as possible, and drops to a kneel beside him. In his lap, Harry’s hands are nestled on top of the remote control, fingers knotted loosely together and unmoving over the hard plastic. Eggsy eases the remote from his hands, disengaging them in the process, and Harry doesn’t stir.

Trusting in the soporific power of BBC World News, Eggsy elects to leave the telly on for the time being. He sets the remote aside and looks up at Harry. Even in the dim light, he can see the lines in Harry’s handsome face and how very relaxed they are, all smoothed over with peaceful sleep. His eyes tick about faintly beneath closed lids, and the slow rise and fall of his chest through his dressing robe is visible as well. He’s still wearing his glasses and his hair is mussed, like it’s dried from a shower and he hasn’t gotten round to combing or slicking it back. On the table next to his chair, there is an empty wine glass with a spot of burgundy liquid pooled above the junction of stem and bowl.

Gingerly, Eggsy rests his hand on Harry’s knee and waits for a response. There is none. He slides his hand higher, stopping a third of the way up Harry’s thigh and keeping it there, splaying his fingers slightly wider. When this fails to wake Harry either, Eggsy grins and treads down on a rising laugh. Harry’s either humouring him or is just as tired as Eggsy was ten — twelve? — hours ago, because heavy sleepers don’t make for very good spies, and he has no doubt in his mind that Harry is, objectively speaking, a terrific spy. The very best of the lot, Eggsy would say. Still, he’s yet to be kicked in the teeth or put into a stranglehold, so he can’t quite figure what to make of that, if there’s anything to make of it at all.

A naughty idea occurring to him, he schools it into the shape of a familiar little challenge before going for the drawstrings of Harry’s robe. Eggsy unlaces them with the same leery vigilance he applies to defusing bombs and cracking alarmed safes, looking up with every pass he makes to check that Harry hasn’t woken just yet. Seconds of light-fingered handiwork later, he peels the folds of the robe back to ogle what he can of Harry’s bare torso — an expanse of pale flesh dusted with silvering hair, illuminated by the soft glow of the telly and neatly shaped with thick, sturdy muscles.

Eggsy gnaws his lower lip, wondering exactly how to go about this. Like always there’s the direct approach, of course, but tonight he wants to take his time, ease them both into it. He rests his chin on the armrest of the chair and watches Harry for a bit longer, admiring the cut of his impressive body and his kingly features. God, he’s gorgeous like this, quiet and sound asleep, and all Eggsy’s. Unsure of where to touch him without consequence, Eggsy settles for stroking the sleeve of his silken robe with his fingers, tracing a caress along the inner aspect of Harry’s elbow.

Harry shifts, hair rustling over the headrest of his chair, and Eggsy withdraws his hand immediately, keeping his eyes on Harry’s face. But the motion passes as soon as it happens, and within seconds Harry goes still once more. His heart pounding, Eggsy pulls a noiseless breath in through his nose and waits another minute. When he’s certain that it’s safe to resume, he returns his fingers to Harry’s arm, skimming them along the fabric and brushing where sleeve falls short of wrist, their first point of bare contact and also the most crucial.

Perhaps Harry is much too deep in slumber or Eggsy’s touch has grown more delicate, but this elicits no observable reaction from him either. So encouraged, Eggsy presses a kiss to Harry’s fingers, restricting his normally greedy technique to just the scantest brush of lips, no breath in it. He expects Harry to rouse somewhat at this, bolsters himself for a tidy reprimanding, and tries not to feel too pleased with himself when he gets away with it again.

Wetting his lips as he pulls back, Eggsy returns his gaze to Harry’s chest and belly, want progressively watering his mouth with every second he spends staring and doing nothing. He contemplates giving in to temptation and dismisses it after some thought. It’s not every day that something like this happens, and Eggsy intends to savour it while he can. Ravishing Harry with his mouth can come later. For now, he has an objective to meet.

He leans in as close as he dares, until his nose is a hair’s distance away from Harry’s stomach, and breathes in. Here, Harry smells very faintly of soap and cologne, the one that always reminds Eggsy of Cuban cigars and billiard rooms and fine brandy in Steuben glasses. Before him, the lightly furred skin looks invitingly soft and delectable, and it takes all of Eggsy’s Marine discipline to keep from pressing his mouth to it or flicking his tongue out for a taste.

Instead, he dips his chin to consider the swell of fabric below, beyond the border that separates waistband from navel. While Harry sleeps topless beneath his robe, he wears pyjama bottoms to bed, a habit of his that has foiled stealthing blowjobs on him in the dead of night on more than one occasion. Eggsy’s done fairly well up to now, though, and it’s this self-reassurance that has him raring for a sniff, to get but a hint of the muffled musky scent that emanates from the thin cotton.

Just studying the clothed outline of Harry’s cock makes Eggsy’s cheeks flush. He’s seized with an urge to chart it with his lips, to nose into Harry’s crotch and worship him through his pants. Beating it back, Eggsy palms himself in lieu of anything else, stifling a groan and trying to work out a way to proceed, to get Harry free without waking him. It’s always this part he never gets quite right, for all his different approaches and the discretion he exercises.

As he thinks, Eggsy exhales through his mouth, hot breath curling into the tight space and reflecting back at him to be inhaled again. This provokes a reaction, another fleeting shift, a slight turn to Harry’s head, convincingly indeterminate for Eggsy to ignore. His hands itch to touch, his mouth craves to close the distance, to kiss Harry there, to suck. Not yet, not just yet. He can almost envision the moment when it will all come to fruition — Harry waking to tongue and wet heat, his cock twitching to hardness inside Eggsy’s mouth — the sheer decadence of it, simply _fantastic_.

Unable to wait any longer, Eggsy reaches out to pinch the hem of Harry’s waistband between forefinger and thumb and tug it down. Slowly, gently now. He doesn’t know how he accomplishes it, but by some miracle or another Eggsy gets the front of Harry’s pyjama bottoms down, the rest of it untouched and trapped under his bum. Woven from silk, they’re loose enough not to cling to Harry’s hips but whisper over his skin all the same, yielding to reveal the prize ensconced within: dark, coarse hair surrounding the lovely sprout of Harry’s cock, already slightly hard with glossy fluid pearling at the slit, and, oh.

Oh.

Wincing, Eggsy nips his tongue and lifts his gaze to meet Harry’s eyes, and the clarity in them is unmistakable. Though they were closed not moments ago, Harry has obviously been awake for some time, maybe even the whole time. Eggsy swallows, and gives him an approximation of the half-guilty, half-abashed smile he imagines would suit a kid who’s been caught with his hands in a biscuit tin, crumbs on his face.

“Hi,” he croaks, thwarted.

Harry smiles back at him. “Good evening.”

“You weren’t, uh. In bed.”

“Yes. I must have fallen asleep.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy agrees, a pretty redundant reply in and of itself.

“Slept well, then?”

“I… yeah. Yes.”

“That’s good,” Harry says casually, like Eggsy’s not on his knees in front of him and drooling into his crotch, about to eat some cock at three a.m with The Travel Show playing in the background. “I meant to wake you in the morning. Wasn’t expecting you to be up before then.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Eggsy explains, and now that the jig is up, there’s nothing keeping him from planting a kiss against Harry’s belly. “I wanted to find you.”

Harry’s hand tangles in his hair, the pads of his fingers sifting over Eggsy’s scalp. “Was that all you wanted of me, Eggsy?” he asks.

It’s a fucking rhetorical question and they both know it, which… is sort of the point, Eggsy supposes. He shakes his head, trailing kisses down Harry’s navel and pressing his tongue to sleep-warm skin. Harry breathes and curls his fingers around the back of Eggsy’s head, a solid, calming presence that guides Eggsy closer and lower.

“It was not my intention to interrupt,” Harry tells him, which is bollocks, innit — he could’ve easily kept up the ruse for another minute and let Eggsy take care of him; too late for that, now. But here they are, and whatever, this is fine, too. Far be it for Eggsy to complain about any situation that ends with Harry’s cock stuffed in his mouth and a hot salty load sliding down his throat.

He smooths back Harry's foreskin with his lips, lapping up precome on his tongue as he goes along. One hand steadying Harry by the base, Eggsy moves his other to take Harry’s wrist, pressing his thumb to the pulse point there. Just to be a wanker, he takes his time with it, licking a line up Harry’s cock and sucking a kiss over his slit, open-mouthed and hot-breathed. He drags his tongue back down, curving it around the shaft to spread both spit and precome. Ducking lower, he mouths at Harry’s sack, his nose pressed to the underside of his cock, breathing the damp sweat smell of him. Christ, if only he could reach Harry’s hole from here, put his tongue in him, everything in the world as Eggsy knows it would be perfect.

Rising again, he drops his mouth over Harry, stopping just under the head to suck, a tentative little pull. Harry’s fingers on him tighten, the heel of his hand lodging below Eggsy’s ear. Eggsy reciprocates with a mischievous scrape of teeth, earns a _tsk_ and a little smack against his cheek as punishment. He grins and returns to sucking Harry, covering his teeth this time as Harry firms pleasantly on the flat of his tongue. He swallows more of him, as much as he can without choking. Head bobbing, cheeks hallowing, Eggsy gathers himself before taking Harry all the way in and letting the glans rub into the back of his throat, up against his tonsils.

“Eggsy,” Harry sighs, deeply appreciative. His hand slips lower to fondle the nape of Eggsy’s neck, brushing the collar of his nightshirt. “That’s the way, Eggsy. My lovely boy.”

Oh, Eggsy knows it, alright. An improved lung capacity isn’t the only thing he’s taken away from his time with the Marines — in the barracks, in the communal showers, anyone who learns to control their gag reflex to some extent becomes pretty popular among the lads, straight or gay or otherwise. It’s training and knowledge that he puts to use earning the favour of Harry’s pleasure, coaxing it out of him one solicitous thrust at a time. Harry may be tired but he’s still stellar at face-fucking, his hips snapping up to fuck into the constriction of Eggsy’s throat, and Eggsy moves in counterpoint with him, awaiting either the moment that Harry begins to spill out slick or when the need for air overrides all else.

It’s the former of the two that Eggsy feels happening first, in the cautionary jerk of Harry’s cock against the roof of his mouth and the jumping of thigh muscles under his fingers and the strangled syllables of his gasped-out name. Harry pulses once, twice, and Eggsy’s breath surges out of him on each thick swallow, a groan unfolding in his chest. He’s hot, so hot and desperately turned on that his face is aching; fucking shit, shitting fuck. This is what he’s waited all week for, what he wanted in the shower with Harry hours ago but hadn’t known at the time and couldn’t claim for the life of him, but oh, Jesus god, it’s worth it, it’s worth getting to ride out Harry’s climax with him, to tongue and suck him through the aftershocks that follow.

When it’s over, Eggsy slithers up, sipping at Harry's body as he goes and whines over his mouth, kiss-hungry. Harry gives it to him without prompting, snaking an arm around Eggsy’s waist to grope his arse and offering up his tongue. Indulgent and pliant, it’s a reward that Eggsy gladly accepts, sucking on it and grinning a come-smeared smile over Harry’s lips.

“Let’s take this upstairs,” Harry murmurs, and he doesn’t have to tell Eggsy a second time. The minute’s journey back to the sanctum of their bedroom turns into a romp that takes twice as long, filled with kissing and bum-frisking and the jostling of knees. They make it there eventually, and Harry shoves him down on their bed, onto creased linen, and strips off Eggsy’s pyjama bottoms in one deliberate yank. Then, the tube they keep in the bedside drawer is out and Harry’s lubed fingers are swiftly probing at Eggsy’s hole, dipping into him and making his breath catch.

“God,” Eggsy chokes. He fists his hands in the sheets, blinking up at the dark ceiling, his spine an electric current running from his tailbone to hindbrain. “Fuck, Harry, fuck.”

Knuckle-deep now, the two fingers Harry has in him twist in and angle up, the tips rubbing delicately over Eggsy’s prostate. “Relax,” Harry tells him, as if Eggsy isn't already giving it all that he's got. He’s an overwhelmed mess, cock stiff and leaking, too sensitive to do anything but tense and squeeze down on Harry’s fingers.

Eggsy does try not to cry out, but even as his best efforts prepare him for when Harry starts thrusting, it’s nowhere near enough to keep his thoughts together when Harry closes his mouth over the crown of his cock, tongue wriggling expertly into his slit. He keens and arches his back before Harry braces him to the bed with a forearm across his stomach. Babbling Harry’s name is preferable to whatever nonsense that fills Eggsy’s head, with a curse word slipping out here and there.

By the time he's on the edge, Eggsy has tears in his eyes and even swearing fails him, shrinking down to an awful gasping sound that shreds his voice raw. He can't stop squirming, legs spreading wide as Harry fingers and sucks him without mercy. Orgasm claims him without warning, every muscle of his straining like a vise, each small contraction a singular burst of white-hot pleasure. He comes, sobbing with release and the relentless stroking of Harry's fingers, and he keeps coming, keeps wailing and bucking, until Harry has to pin him down by the hips again to milk him thoroughly dry.

It doesn't quite end there. Harry keeps suckling, rubs more lube into Eggsy's body like he's already back in it and fancies another go, but then his fingers slither out of Eggsy to linger along tender skin and quivering muscle, not stretching, just teasing. The burning rush fades within the minute, a post-coital chill slotting into its place, but Eggsy doesn’t move, just lies slack on his back as Harry swallows and laves him clean. His chest heaves and he rolls over when Harry prods gently at him, bringing his legs up so Harry can sweep the duvet out from under him and drape it over them both.

He nuzzles close to Harry with a contented sigh, listening to his breathing and the humming noise Harry makes low in his throat. The numbers on the clock behind his head bleed into two minutes past three. Four more hours to dawn, a new day already in the making, one of many to look forward to. They’ll see it together then. Eggsy smiles at the thought, his eyes fluttering shut on a bout of renewed tiredness, and with Harry beside him, he breathes their way into glorious sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I put things on [Tumble](http://fideliant.tumblr.com/) sometimes.


End file.
